Poem of the Month
Zeitgeist

By Cora Siré

Published on April 1, 2015

              So it’s a dreary December, the sun a low ember
behind ashen snowfall, when you see him bicycle by.

You know this guy! His paintbrush, you’ve seen it fly
as watery blues and greys create a feisty pigeon
perched atop a tarnished angel’s head.

His pedals rotate in slow-mo, one hand steadies
the handlebar and with the other, the artist grasps his heavy
canvas as he churns onward through the sooty snow.

You’ve seen him talking miles per minute while red paint
slashed out the cavorting grace of two horses, saddleless and free
in a generous space, leaving you (that’s his gift) to imagine
context, landscapes.

He’s put in his feistful years in your callous neighbourhood
and laughs through the fickle flash of art-collecting
nouveau riche, anchored by love (you think) and devotion to
unbridled metaphors.

So it’s more than reassuring to witness his zany progress,
a distant haloed fleck cycling through the snowy solstice
delivering art despite the twilight’s
falling ashes.

More Poetry

Bond “Girls”

BOND “GIRLS” PT. 1: LUCIA

Everyone loves older men and even older cities. But women
must be girls, and preferably girls from out of town. But
I’ve lived here my whole life. And when you died, I fell

Yarrow

Faded, bent, and obdurate its yellowing lace deceptive the delicacy of old ladies who survive their mates

AIDS Ward

This is the bed, empty again, next to the man dying. This is the strap that ties down the man that lies next to the empty bed.